


Queen Street

by Caryl (Starshone)



Series: Infinity Plays [3]
Category: Uncharted
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:59:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starshone/pseuds/Caryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In that one universe where Flynn survives, he and Chloe meet again years later.</p><p>Originally a prompt fic on Tumblr and posted as part of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/651039"><i>History Can Be Wrong</i></a>; reposted so I could put it in a series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhiannon87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/gifts).



> I spent a really long time contemplating the effects of drinking the resin/sap and may have borrowed the concept of physical invulnerability meaning lack of sensation for _all_ touch from _Haven_ and messed up metabolism from _Doctor Who_ and _Torchwood_.

Seven years ago, spending a hundred New Zealand dollars on beer for yourself in one bar would have made you black out, or perhaps killed you, since beer was cheaper then. Now, it gets you kicked out "for your own safety" even though you're only tipsy.

Still, tipsy is an improvement over the year after Shambhala, when your physical invulnerability seemed limitless. It's been wearing off, you think; you've been feeling gradually more pain from injuries you couldn't feel at all in that first year. On the upside, it also means you're regaining sensitivity to physical pleasure. In a few more years, smoking might do something again.

You haven't stopped carrying your lighter, though, and you're flicking it idly as a balding man approaches, his eyes on the bar you've just unwillingly left.

"Don't go in there," you warn him. "It's run by tightasses who don't want to make money."

The man raises an eyebrow, amused. "Thanks, mate, I'll keep that in mind." His accent's Cockney, rather a surprise here in Auckland. "Come on, bright eyes -"

He passes, revealing none other than Chloe Frazer standing behind him, staring at you in shock.

Seven years. You've managed to "stay the hell away from" both Chloe and Nate for seven years by a combination of avoiding jobs and countries you know they'd be interested in, keeping up with industry gossip (some jobs ask if you know any good drivers because "we can't get Frazer: she's in South Africa last I heard"), and sheer luck, and now you manage to run into her in a country she doesn't even like.

"Chloe?" the man asks. "You alright?"

"Fine," she says, without looking at him; you recognize the odd note in her voice that says she's really not fine. "You go on ahead; I'll catch up."

"If you're sure," he says, a little worry entering his voice, and you hear the door open and close.

Neither of you speak. Finally, you blurt out the first thing that pops into your head just to break the silence: "Well. I see I've been replaced."

It's completely the wrong thing to say, you realize as soon as it leaves your mouth. Chloe spares you the trouble of punching yourself for it.

"I kind of felt that," you marvel, massaging your jaw.

"What do you mean, 'kind of'?" Chloe asks, shaking out her hand. "That should have broken your jaw."

"Never mind," you say, waving her off. "Can I just clarify that your staying here doesn't break your verbal restraining order? Before you try to _actually_ break my jaw?"

She eyes you for a moment, wary, then nods. At first you think you're just relieved because you won't have to put New Zealand on your long list of countries to avoid (Chloe's patriotically disparaging comments about it had put it on your list of countries which seemed relatively safe), but then you realize that it _is_ nice to see her again. Years of resenting her for that order to stay away from her when you'd rather repay her the debt of your life - yet inexplicably missing her (the fact that she didn't shoot you in the monastery means something, right?) - melt away in the face of this woman who doesn't seem to have changed much; just little things like getting her ears pierced and her hair actually being out of her eyes now.

"I like your new haircut," you say pathetically, at the same time as she says, "I'm glad your hair finally got out of the nineties."

The insult in retrospect only makes you smile, as does the fact that you both went for commenting on each other's hair. You got on so well with and later fell for her and as of recent years, missed her because you're so alike.

"Yeah, well," you say, simple acknowledgment because it really _was_ about time you stopped frosting your tips. "How've you been?"

Chloe purses her lips, then shrugs.

"Alright," she says, still with that tone that means _anything but_ ; that uncertainty has permeated everything she's said to you so you think she's been okay. "Work, travel, you know how it is."

For a moment you consider asking about her new man (did he call her _bright eyes_?) but you recognize that she may punch you again.

You consider it anyway.

"How about _you_?" she adds.

"Not purple," you feel the need to point out. "Not going on crazy murder sprees. Not sure I'm invincible or immortal but obviously I don't want to test it."

"Obviously."

Her dry tone, which you've always liked, makes it impossible to tell whether that's genuine agreement that you shouldn't die to test a theory or just continuing your mild sarcasm. Considering she's only punched you instead of pulling her gun on you, you decide to take a chance that it's the former, and admit, "I've missed you."

"Harry," she says, starting a motion that could be looking away or could be shaking her head, but some pop song you don't recognize saves her from ever finishing the motion or her sentence. She fishes her phone out of her pocket and answers it. "Hey - yeah, I'm fine. ... _Yes_ , really. ... Shit, sorry, I'll be in in a sec. See you soon."

She hangs up and pockets the phone, looking faintly apologetic. "I've got to go. I'm meeting a client in your tightass bar."

Meeting a client explains what she's doing in New Zealand.

"Can I contact you?" you ask, trying not to sound desperate. You're curious about the limits of this truce, whether it ends here or whether you have to go back to avoiding her except for chance meetings, that's all.

Chloe hesitates before asking, "Still got my e-mail address?"

"Maybe," you say, trying to remember which e-mail address you were using back then. She switched SIM cards almost every time Lazarevic brought the camp to another country, with the ease of a long habit. E-mail probably is her most constant form of contact.

She rattles it off for you, "just in case," and you make an effort to memorize it (her name (you're pleased to hear that she hasn't changed her surname), her preferred caliber, an Australian subdomain).

"Good night, Harry."

You almost, _almost_ reach for her, unsure of what you'd even do if you reached her, but just murmur, "Good night, Chloe," instead.

It's pathetic, and she can probably tell, but you watch her turn and enter the bar before you leave yourself, pulling out your phone to get her e-mail address down before you forget it.

You wonder how many more beers it will take you to actually get drunk, and if your wallet would survive.


End file.
